(n) the distance through which anything falls
by procras-tea-nation
Summary: Castiel falls on a Thursday morning. He hasn't stopped since.


**kalopsia**

(n.) the delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are

* * *

A distinct chirp outside the window. Newborn birds, trying to fly. Sun rays mustering courage to poke through the veil of grey the clouds shroud. Branches reaching up, straining against the sky, attempting to grab onto sky. No matter what Castiel glances at, he catches glimpses of heaven.

He is four-legged on the floor, palms and toes flat and breathing coming out ragged, exhausted. He dips his head, curves his spine, legs and feet now lovingly resting above the carpet. "Sun Salutation" with a meaning deeper than he cares to admit. The words of his instructor prick at a corner of his mind, "Your goal is to breathe, Castiel. It would do wonders for you."

He would give anything to stop breathing. What a wonder that would be.

He steps out, back, hips angling up to the ceiling, shoulders pressed down. Submissive. He tries to surrender to the pose, tries to feel humble, but he's too tired. He is just so, so tired. He huffs out air he's been holding onto selfishly, and collapses into Child's Pose. Vulnerable.

It's at that moment Dean finds him; and how fitting, because the only time Dean ever seems to walk into Castiel's life is when he's desperate to be alone.

"I made some spaghetti," Dean says, seemingly to Castiel, but it sounds like he just wants to hear himself talk. Hear someone talk.

"That's nice," Castiel mutters into the fibers tickling his nose, eyes wide and staring up-close at their detailing. He pushes his palms further down, releasing his tension through his fingertips. Castiel's shoulders have always carried his emotional weight.

He gives himself away—or maybe Dean just knows where to look.

Dean says nothing, and it aggravates Castiel. He can see the image of Dean standing, hands in his pockets, downcast eyes like he has a single clue about how Castiel might feel. Downcast eyes like he pities Castiel, like he thinks a plate of spaghetti is enough to fix anything at all.

"Is there a reason you're telling me this?" Castiel quips, impatient. Eager to keep his face hidden away.

Dean sharply inhales, "No, I guess not," and Castiel smiles closed-lip when he hears the edge to his voice. When he hears Dean's feet crack as he walks away, Castiel smiles all bright-white teeth. And then he's laughing quietly to himself, feeling triumphant and powerful for highlighting Dean's insignificance and uselessness. He thinks it's _hilarious_.

It comes bubbling out of him, and the heavy gravity in his shoulders disappears because this is the first time in a while he's laughed, just because, and he folds himself in it and drinks it up like he's fresh out of the desert and in desperate need for water. It takes no time at all, but Castiel breaks under the thumb of his own personal chaos, and soon deep-belly sobs wrack his ribs, and he's crying, but he's laughing, and it's still hilarious.

He wants to die, and it's the funniest thought he's had in a while.

In the other room, Dean leans against the wall, legs unable to support his literal weight and Castiel's figurative. He listens to Castiel laughing, eyes towards heaven, and when he hears the first hitch in Castiel's voice, his brows furrow, and he can't swallow.

He can only close his glassy eyes and wait for it to be over.

* * *

Pre-dawn jitters startle Castiel away from sleep. He sits up from the floor, shivering, eyes finding focus on the empty bottle of Whiskey resting next to his legs. His mouth is dry. There's a beige blanket over his legs, and he peels it off like it's a skin he's uncomfortable in. He turns slightly, to Dean, who apparently spent the night on the couch next to him. Castiel watches him breathe. His face reflects the peace of mind a lack of reality surely gives him. He looks a few years younger—rather, closer to his age than he usually looks—and Castiel swallows thickly. He has a brief moment of pause: maybe today I could get up and kiss his worry-wrinkling forehead, maybe today I could tell him I'll get better, maybe today I could give him an ounce of hope that I'm not going to try to-

His eye catches the bottle of anti-depressants in Dean's hand, clutched tight.

Castiel's eyes narrow, slits of paling blue attempting to piece together the broken up parts of the previous night. He must have tried, again. Dean doesn't usually spend a night on the couch unless that's the case. Dean doesn't usually have possession of his medicine unless he had to force it out of Castiel's calloused hands. He wants to feel sorry, but the pounding in his head is preventing any sympathy from shining through.

His feet drag across the floor to the bathroom, where he splashes cold water on his face and takes two Tylenol for good measure. When he closes the cabinet, Dean's frame is reflected in the front mirror. Castiel doesn't move. He does think, passively, how odd this situation is. A stubbly, depressed fallen angel taking pain medication and a man exhausted more by loving that fallen angel than by anything else he's done in his life.

All at once a little meek, Castiel turns against the sink, the back of his palms resting on top of the white porcelain. Dean is an open book to Castiel, having learned every expression and anxious habit as one would commit a map to memory. Each movement a road to something else, somewhere else. Dean would look broken if the anger swelling in his chest weren't keeping him up.

"Dean, I'm—"

"Don't."

Castiel closes his mouth, eyebrows flicker up-and-down to mock Dean's sudden show of emotion. He sighs, raises his face squarely to Dean's. "What do you want me to say, if it's not sorry?" He wants to feel sorry, but the fluorescent light is preventing any attempt at genuine reconciliation.

"I don't give a fuck what you say," Dean snarls. His top lip quivers. Castiel knows Dean's not just angry. He's hurt, like a tiny abused puppy. He tries not to laugh at him, especially with that lip refusing to stop its tremor. Dean steals Castiel away from his thoughts, "I just don't want any more of your apologies."

Castiel finally lets out a chuckle, and closes his eyes, dips his head down. He feels like he's caught in a shitty rehab documentary on TV. The ones where family members sit in a circle and plead for their child or sibling or lover or whatever to _just stop_, _you're ruining our family_, _I don't know how to help you anymore_, _why won't you help yourself, do you want to die? _ It makes Castiel loathe Dean even more.

A witty retort is halfway out of his mouth before he realizes Dean's no longer there.

* * *

"I want to visit the thrift store across town."

Dean raises himself up, sleep-heavy eyes landing on Castiel like he can't believe he's there. He almost thinks he's still dreaming, because Castiel is in a shirt and jeans, and his hair is noticeably less messy. Castiel shrugs off his look and validates, "It would make me happy," and that's enough for Dean to kick off the covers and fumble for his wallet. It's been months since Castiel's wanted to return to the thrift store. It's charmingly called "Pappy's," hinting at its supposed history in which it's been passed down through the generations of family. Castiel still hasn't shaved, but Dean is so amazed and hopeful, and at the same time so careful, because Castiel is leaving the house and he put on clothes and fuck, it's just so much to take in and he has to let it all go in his run to the Impala, in his turning on of the radio, in the way he can hear Castiel humming along.

Dean does not get his hopes up, anymore. He knows better than that—but. Castiel is leaving the house, and he put clothes on, and he is humming along to the radio like he's heard the song a million times but it's only the first. "I've, uh—I've a lot of money saved up, so. We—you can get whatever you like, alright?"

He turns to see Castiel nod, silently, eyes averted from Dean's. Eyes always averted from Dean's. But—Castiel is leaving the house, and rolling down the window, and Dean's stomach just drops. Castiel is achingly, organically beautiful in the pale pink light, and Dean has to remind himself to keep his eyes on the road. He wants to cry, holy shit does he want to cry. He can't, he can't, "I can't," he thinks to himself, and eases onto the gas pedal because the quicker they get there, the quicker Dean can find a bathroom. If he even lets one tear out, the damn he's protectively built will crumble under the weight, and he won't stop crying.

With a swift motion in his wrist, Dean pulls into the parking lot. Castiel is out of the car before Dean fully stops. He hurriedly turns off the Impala and locks her tight, catching up to Castiel in the doorway of the store.

It's quiet, and bathed in a warm glow. Some girls with fake hipster glasses fumble through the clothes section. Castiel passes them by and Dean watches them stare at him, exchange glances. Despite himself, Dean smiles at their recognition of Castiel's inherent appeal. He finds focus on Castiel's frame, lightly touching certain nondescript items. It's admittedly painful, and so he busies himself amongst a box of old buttons with detached interest.

Castiel spots it almost immediately. Hungry fingers reach out to touch each and every one included in the set. He feels an angelic sense of knowledge overtake him. Each pair of eyes is acquainted with distinct, distant memories he was sure he'd buried down deep along with his grace. Each pair of wings makes the spot between his shoulder blades twitch. It's the most he's felt in years, and suddenly he knows he can't leave without them all. He can't leave them again, like last time. He won't.

Castiel turns, shining eyes finding Dean, and he holds the set of angel figurines in the air, smiling. He yells, "Dean!" brightly, like he found the golden ticket, and he's finally going to get the beginning he always wanted. Dean smiles because he needs to. Inside he thinks he dies a little more.

The fact that figurines of familiar angel-faces have done more for Castiel in a second than Dean has done in years rips out the roots of the ugly truth and throws them in his face.

He realizes he'll never regret anything more than asking Castiel to stay with him.

* * *

"This one even has red hair, like Anna," Castiel prattles. "She was remarkable, before heaven got to her. You know, she and I were very close in our early years." He holds up another figure, "though Balthazar here, and I," he smiles to himself, "we were true brothers, I believe."

Dean forces a slight laugh, "Yeah—all you need is a fancy suit for that one, and it's Balthazar alright." A pause. It's awkward. Castiel peers up at Dean, recognizing his remark wasn't completely sincere. "Right," he says, and holds Balthazar in his hands for another moment before placing him on the table next to Anna. Castiel fades, and Dean can almost trace a shadow of his wings wilting against the wall. Of course, of course, of course he would be the one to damage Castiel's fleeting happiness. He can't even make pleasant conversation.

It's just.

There are—so many scars, so many burns imprinted in Dean's mind. He wants to small talk, but it's so goddamn painful. Every morning he wakes up, he wonders if that's the day he'll find Castiel in the garage, or on the floor, or slumped over in the bathroom. He'll walk, then run, from room-to-room, until he can see with his own eyes the rise and fall of Castiel's frame. Hours will pass before he'll muster enough courage to wake up. Then Castiel will eat a piece of toast, no butter, and Dean will watch him, and Castiel will watch the crumbs fall on his plate. Dean will run errands, check in on Castiel when he can. No hunts at night has become a rule. Because if Dean isn't there, just for one night, he might not be able to stop Castiel from—

"Cas," he says, and it's loud enough to keep the thoughts at bay. Castiel flinches. His eyes land on Dean hard, and he looks so scared and Dean wants to choke on the words in his throat because he just doesn't know what he's afraid of, anymore. He hopes deep down that Castiel isn't afraid of him, because—he doesn't know how he could possibly fix that.

"You did good today," Dean whispers, tenderly, "I mean, really, really good." He tries to avoid letting "I'm proud of you" edge out of his lips, since Castiel's body grows increasingly uncomfortable as Dean continues. Castiel boasts about how well he knows Dean, but Dean knows Castiel pretty fucking well, too; and he knows at night that the words Dean tells him, or told him, when he was drunk off of tequila or his love for Castiel spin around in Castiel's mind like clockwork on acid. Castiel still loves him, and he knows that.

His hand skims over Castiel's feather-light, and Dean tries not to smile when he hears Castiel's breath catch.

"You're stronger than you think," Dean urges.

Castiel holds Dean's gaze for so long, and Dean's drawn back to a cold night in a barn, where sparks shut his eyes tight and when he let them open all he saw was this man in a trench coat. Unassuming and full of wonder. Eyes that rivaled the blue hues of the sky.

Castiel's wide eyes water, "I'm trying."

"I know. I know. You—you're doing the best you can, Cas," and Castiel's eyes close. Dean can see the light bounce off of the water that escapes his eyes, and his stomach falls beneath his feet. Dean's lips, despite his efforts, can't quite curve into a smile. Their fingers thread together and Castiel's head sinks lower, each and every possible reality accumulating atop his shoulders. Dean's thumb traces Castiel's palm, and it's so normal, so much of what their days used to be. Sitting close in creaking chairs and touching hands and looking at each other.

It's raining.

* * *

The sound of glass shattering is excruciating—but nothing compares to the sound of Castiel's heart hitting the floorboards.

Dean's lungs flare, raw with rough breathing and frustrated screams he let crawl out of his mouth.

_("They're not coming back, Cas. You can't keep pretending these fucking glass statues are your friends!"_

_"And how sad is it that these "statues" have made me happier than you have in the two years I've been with you? What does that say about your competency?")_

His hands are shaking. They were just fighting, it was just fighting. Castiel stands: broad, unmoving, stopped by the shockwaves of his figurines falling to the floor. Their second fall to humanity. Dean can't look at the mess because he's afraid he'll see their wings encased in ash, pressed onto the floor, tattooed as reminders. Castiel drops to his knees, still staring at Dean. His hands hang limply at his sides.

"Haven't you destroyed enough," he grinds through his teeth. He looks down at his brothers and sisters on the hardwood, the broken toys of his Father's heavenly collection. Dean hesitates, and then all at once, Castiel begins to cry. He weeps, mourns. His hands reach up to cover his face, swollen and red. He cried for every time he held it in, every fight, every fucking sun salutation that never removed the needle from his skin. For every time he and Dean fucked and held tight, and every time they didn't.

Suddenly Dean is beside him, on his knees, legs touching in the most familiar and welcome of ways. Dean enfolds him in his arms, and Castiel struggles against him so blindly that he knows it hurts Dean. He wants it to hurt Dean. Castiel's fingernails dig into Dean's back, and Dean doesn't notice, can't even see through the film over his eyes. He hasn't held Castiel in three months. He hasn't held him in three months.

"Please," Castiel cries into Dean's neck. His body has gone slack with complete, utter exhaustion.

"I'm trying," Dean croaks out, grabbing the hairs at the back of Castiel's head adoringly.

It's love, and it's ugly, and it's all they have.

* * *

Castiel falls on a Thursday morning. It's peaceful. He'd been grumbling for a few days about not being able to transport himself places, or having to learn to use a car for himself; but there were lots of human experiences Castiel regarded with rapture. He would remark about how the supposed orange-scented soap did indeed smell like oranges. "Dean," he'd proclaim, "the laundry isn't pink!" Castiel was eager to apply the knowledge he'd absorbed over the years, such as tying shoelaces and cooking culinary masterpieces.

"I had the chance to study with professionals in France. My previous vessel was a sous chef," he says over the sound of vegetables cooking in the pan. The house smells something delicious every day. Dean wakes up every morning to coffee and eggs, and when his knees crack as he walks downstairs, he'll always collide against Castiel's back, fingers threading delicately. Castiel will tip his head back and laugh, happy to be alive, happy to be human.

Some days Castiel becomes frustrated, but Dean is quick to press his lips to his forehead and assure him that he's trying his best. Castiel will always smile sweet and take Dean's face in his hands.

"Are you happy, Cas?"

"I think I'm happiest with you."

Castiel falls on a Thursday morning.

He hasn't stopped falling since.

* * *

I needed this out of my hands as quick as possible. Apologies for any mistakes.

Having too many people close to me battle with depression, I don't know what I was thinking writing Castiel's fall this way.

I think it just needs to be kept in mind that being in love with someone doesn't patch up all your wounds-doesn't fix you. Castiel may always be a little broken. It's not up to Dean to fix him. It's up to Dean to encourage and accept. I think he could, but I also don't think Castiel would fall and la-la-la everything is sunshine daisies bottom mellow. Sacrifice isn't easy! Castiel's not exempt.

I've made myself quite sad. Time to go binge on fluff fiction.

Thanks for reading, please drop a comment!

warmth,

geenon


End file.
